


What I'm Made Of

by herbailiwick



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brothers, Comfort, Fear, Insecurity, M/M, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-10
Updated: 2012-05-12
Packaged: 2017-11-05 02:44:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,554
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/herbailiwick/pseuds/herbailiwick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I prompted my friend cmcross and I: "John saves all the stories from the tabloids and blogs about him and Sherlock being together. Sherlock finds his stash while looking for cigarettes."</p><p>Sherlock POV, Johnlock. Quite angsty at first, but I couldn't help but fix things. Brief, inexplicit mentions of masturbation and of wanting to self-harm and self-disfigure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "John, I Am Empty"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock finds the articles and becomes upset. He clears things up with John, which he thinks is kinder.

I found them in John's desk-side drawer, hiding away. It was amusing, at first, even amusing enough to forget about my cigarettes, but then it was less amusing as I slowly came to realize they were _all_ articles in the same vein. They all had to do with John and I being secret lovers, which we were not.

I slowly closed the drawer, running a hand over my face. I wanted to delete them from my mind, but at the same time I didn't. I wanted to figure out what would possess John to keep the articles, since we weren't together. 

With any luck, the reason could have been simple curiosity. I must admit, I've often tried to decipher what it is people see between the two of us. I want to breathe John in, want to hold him and be a part of him and sway to his orders, but I don't want John like people seem to think I do. Actually, a part of me faintly used to wish that I wanted him, but I find myself increasingly uncomfortable with the idea in reality.

I would be holding John back in life if he ever truly attached himself to me that way. 

***

I heard him, one night. I heard him making sounds that only really meant one thing.  

I bugged his room for the next few nights.

He whispered my name. It was definitely me he wanted.

I felt guilt wash over me like molten lead. What had I done to reduce John to that? What kind of a monster had I become, to draw in my friend who had such a chance to be normal? Why would I wish to take that from him?

Just the thought of John wanting me when he could have so much better made me want to...to...no, those were thoughts I didn't entertain. I didn't want to hurt any part of me, surely, and I didn't want to disfigure my face, which was a curse. No, there was no need for all of that; it was stupid. Pointless. Would help nothing.

Would not help John.

***

"John," I finally said. "Please just listen. You have to move on. I can't give you what you need." 

"You mean leave Baker Street?" he looked surprised.

Leave Baker Street? What...? "No, John. You have to take your heart back. I cannot be trusted with it. You deserve.... John, there are...there are things I'm incapable of." I sounded desperate, but I felt more desperate still.

"Sex?"

"All of it," I gestured. "Sex, romance, sentiment. All deserved, all ungiven. You will shrivel with me. I am the _worst_ ," I growled. "So if you'd like to keep a shred of the...the goodness you emit, just give up on me. Shred the articles. Stop with the fantasies. I will hurt you!"

John, eyes wide, already looked hurt. My shoulders slumped.

"Oh John," I said. "Don't you see, John?" I whispered. 

He pushed his chair back from the table. "No," he said with a sniff. "No, Sherlock. I don't see. The cigarettes are in the skull. Please don't...please stay away from...."

"Out of your room," I said quietly. "I understand."

"No, you don't."

He headed up to his room, and I watched him. I watched him and I wondered. I wondered when it would be too late, if it was too late already, if it would ever be. Too late to change my mind, I mean. What if I had a heart after all? What if I could be John's...John's everything?

I quietly crept up the stairs to check on him. He wept openly. It was my fault. I'd tried to assist him, and this is what I'd done. There was no good in me. 

No, I suppose I didn't have one after all.


	2. "Sherlock, You're Not Empty"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is weeping, and Sherlock calls Mycroft for help. Rated G.

"Mycroft," I said faintly above the roaring of my blood in my ears. "Mycroft, I've done something horrible."

"Brother dear. What is it this time?" He was too far away. I didn't care to deduce where he was, didn't want to make fun. I just wanted him next to me.

" _Mycroft_." My thoughts raced. How exactly did one explain they'd broken their only friend? "It's John," I said finally.

"What is in trouble? His body or his spirit?"

"Spirit," I bit out. "Mycroft, what do I...how do I fix him?"

"What happened, brother dear?" he soothed. I couldn't even bring myself to feel annoyance at the situation, at the way he always tried to _understand_. This was too deep, too important.

"I found...." I sucked in a deep breath that physically hurt me. "I found articles."

"Of what?"

" _Us_. J- him and me, as if...."

"As if you were together," Mycroft supplied. It was a complete guess, but a lucky one.

" _Yes_."

"Sherlock, are you alright, or do you want me to send a car? Are you alone?"

I took a deep breath, trying to sort out my thoughts and the flurry of my emotion. "No, I'm not," I admitted. "He's weeping in his room. Mycroft, _help_."

***

I pulled out my violin in the car and plucked at it, ignoring Anthea who was also ignoring me. She was no doubt commenting on the state of me through her little texts. I plucked a bit harder.

Finally, we arrived, and I burst out of the car, clutching the instrument and pushing into the house, where I found my brother heading toward me and I reached for him. He cradled me against him, gentle like he had no right to be, like I was breakable. But I wasn't breakable; I was a juggernaut.

"Sherlock, you're crying," he said gently, surprised. He pulled away to lead me through the hallways to the familiar sofa, where I sat heavily and sprawled out to my content. 

"What happened?"

I set the violin down and rubbed at my face. "He wants me, and I explained that it wouldn't work."

"Tea?"

I shook my head.

"Sherlock?" said softly, nearly a whisper. "Why wouldn't it work? Tell me."

I turned to look at him, gauging his expression. "You can't be serious." My throat felt dry. "I'll take that tea," I said. 

Mycroft walked over and pressed the button to call for tea. Imagine asking me ridiculous questions like "Why wouldn't it work?", implying that there was a possibility, no, a likelihood, of it working out. At least Mycroft's standards in tea were always high.

"How did you feel through all of this?" he pressed on.

I rolled my eyes. "What, are you a shrink now? Spare me." 

"Sherlock, you called me," Mycroft reminded me. Ah, right. A moment of weakness. Way to rub it in, Brother Mine.

"Yes, well, I'm as entitled to regrets as you are," I shot back, then sat up, curling my legs up in front of me. "Oh hell." I buried my face.

Mycroft had the gall to sit next to me, but I made no move to get away. Truth was, I preferred him next to me right then.

"I would like to know everything. I don't think you called me to merely go and fix things with your friend. I think you called me to help you see if you were capable of doing so yourself." A first, admittedly. 

I didn't move except to shut my hidden eyes tightly, ignoring the fresh tears as they made their grand entrance.

"You've already shown much concern, Sherlock. Perhaps we were both wrong about your capacity for caring."

I took in a shuddery breath, but I didn't move.

"So, you let him down. I'm guessing because you felt there were things he needed that you couldn't supply." I nodded tensely, but relaxed a little when his warm hand rested on the back of my neck, fingertips rubbing slightly. I sighed. His hand moved further down. Eventually, he manipulated my tired form, turning me, rubbing at my shoulders. He'd become insufferable if he knew how much I appreciated such things when I was down.

Our tea was placed on the table, and Lucille acknowledged us, and we her, then she was gone. Mycroft said in the silence, "Forgive me."

"Mm? What for?"

"For believing you heartless."

"I am!" I pressed back against the soothing work of his hands on my shoulders. "I'll make him miserable. He deserves so much better." My voice rasped on the words as I repeated them, "So much _better_ , Mycroft."

"I don't see what's so bad about you, brother."

"That's because you're a sentimental idiot," I sighed. I leaned back against Mycroft and he held me closer.

"Now now. I may have been an idiot for thinking you weren't capable of what you'd never displayed, but it is in you. Think about what happened with John. You weren't afraid for yourself, Sherlock. You were fearing for John's sake. And I bet it hurt to turn him down. You've entertained the idea of a relationship between the two of you before, even hoped for it in quiet moments. And now it must seem far away."

I turned sideways to snuggle into Mycroft more. He smelled like Father's aftershave and like old books and tea. He petted my hair.

"I'll talk to him if you want me to; you know I will. But I think you can do it. It's important to get to it sooner rather than later. Let him cry his tears, and you yours; that's fine." He cupped my cheek. "You are so much more than I'd thought. I do so apologize for underestimating you."

"Well, I think I underestimated you too," I huffed.

"I think you rather didn't." I closed my eyes as his thumb stroked my cheek. I fell asleep in his arms, as I'd done often when we were young. You wouldn't think it to look at him, but he's comfortable. Had been more comfortable when he'd been fatter, but he's still surprisingly comfortable in his current state.

I woke up hours later. Our positions had barely changed, and Mycroft was asleep beneath me, his breathing a steady tide under my cheek. He was still holding me. He always wanted to hold me. He wasn't good at letting go of anything, but especially his little baby brother. Sometimes, every once in a while, I was very glad for that.


	3. "I'm a Sentimental Idiot"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tells John what Mycroft helped him discover. Rated G.

After much stalling with Mycroft involving Cluedo (which I like to play with him because he lets me be creative) and Chess (which I like to play with him because he gets excited about it), I got in late. Late enough for John to be asleep, to be precise. I'd promised to steer clear of his room, so I couldn't confirm my suspicions, but I thought he'd be home because it wasn't likely he'd have felt comfortable enough with anyone to talk to them about how I'd hurt him, at least not within twenty-four hours. Not even Mrs. Hudson.

So he'd have cried, alone, and slept hard. It wasn't very easy to see why John had fallen for me.

John was at breakfast the next morning, back stiff, face blank, ever the soldier. I hated to be the reason for his bravery. There's a thing Mycroft says of me, says that when you walk with me, you see the battlefield. I _am_ the battlefield, or at least that's what I'd always thought. Mycroft's words had affected me, though, his bolder ones, his newer ones, the ones about me having a heart.

"Morning." I noticed it right away; John had his tea and toast, but there was none for me. I sat down heavily. I hadn't realized I'd miss that. I didn't think the change in routine was due to anger on John's part. John was being brave, taking steps to prove that he wasn't going to needlessly cling to me, that I could still trust him and our boundaries and that we could move on. 

But John deserved to feel like his tea and toast were welcome, didn't he? Because they were.

"If you were wondering where I went yesterday," I said, "I went to Mycroft's."

John sort of blinked at me. "Okay." He gave nothing else away.

"Yeah, and, er." I had to look away, studying the design on his steaming mug. "He cleared something up for me."

"What, he doesn't have a heart either?" John said mildly, but it wasn't a true joke and neither of us were more at ease for it. "I'm sorry," he said quickly. "Sorry, Sherlock."

Well, that had been unnecessary and rather cold, hadn't it? But I shrugged and let us sit in silence for a while. He was practicing pushing me out of his heart; after all, I'd told him to. John did have a right to be upset at my invasion of his privacy, not only of his room but of his feelings, and he also had a right to be upset at the fact I'd crushed his dreams. He didn't know it yet, but he'd soon have a right to be upset that I would try to piece the dreams back together, if he did get upset.

I got up to make myself some tea, for the first morning in weeks.

John scrubbed a hand over his face. "Toast, Sherlock?"

I peered at him, smiled at him cautiously, nodded. We bustled about together. "That's not what Mycroft cleared up," I said in offering.

"No? Well, come on then. What was it?"

"Well," I said, reaching around him for a moment. "I was concerned that I wasn't concerned, thereby proving myself to be concerned."

John had a hard time getting his head around that one. I sighed, trying again. "What he actually said was that I wasn't afraid for myself, but afraid for you."

John and I took our places at the table, my eyes on him, his eyes far away, his face all scrunched up in the way it is when he's trying hard to figure something out.

"So you told me to stay away to protect me."

"Yes."

"Well, yeah, I mean, I thought that was part of it. But...you also told me because you wanted to be clear that we," he winced and hesitated, "that you and I...we can't...."

"John, can you fetch me your articles?" I asked. 

He gave me a warning look, I guess for bringing them up, then said, "No."

I focused on my toast. It felt drier than usual in my mouth. 

"What I mean to say is," John said, "I binned them."

I brushed my hands off on my pyjamas and went to John's room, pulling the crumpled articles from the bin.

"Privacy, remember? Oh, forget it," John said from the bottom of the stairs. He went back to the table and waited for me.

"I think," I said, laying some of them flat best I could, "that there may have been some insights that more objective, third-party viewers were able to pick up on."

"You mean you were wrong."

"Hm?" I looked up.

"You were wrong, yesterday. You got it wrong."

I smiled carefully. "What is your amusement with my being wrong?"

"I like to see you're human, generally. And in this case, it means...it means...." He cleared his throat. "Well."

"It means I have a heart. That was it. That's what Mycroft helped me see, remember? It means you and I...you and I could actually have something. That maybe," I took in a breath, my words rushing out of me like a fountain, "you and I could have it all, John. Maybe affection for me is not going to bring about your complete ruination."

John raised an eyebrow. "You really don't have a very high opinion of yourself. Or of me."

I shrugged. "So," I said after a while. "What are you thinking?"

"I'm thinking we should get Mycroft something nice," John said faintly.

"Mm." Hopefully he'd forget all about that. Oh, he probably wouldn't, though. But I suppose just one gift that didn't come on Christmas wouldn't spoil Mycroft too badly.

"Last night did hurt, Sherlock. But...if you thought you'd be, what was it, my 'ruination' if I had feelings for you, I suppose I understand."

"And I am allowed in your room again?"

"Eventually, I should think you'll sleep there, sometimes," he said boldly. I blinked in surprise. Sudden, John. Very sudden. I changed the subject.

"Well, I like having access to the room. I don't do much harm," I said.

"And I guess, in this case," John said, gesturing to the articles on the table, "it's alright that you found out my secret."

I didn't tell him that I'd also bugged the room.

"Where does this leave us, then?" John asked, not pressuring, just curious.

"I've wanted to be the things you need, John." My throat felt a little thick. I took a sip of tea. "I've wanted to be a proper...boyfriend." Just saying it made a thrill run through me. The thought of me being a boyfriend, of me with John. "I thought it was impossible. I ached to be there for you until I hated everything, bitter when I thought I couldn't."

I focused on the wallpaper. "I've been envious of your dates. I've thought myself the most selfish man in the world for wanting to keep you, to breathe you in. I want you to force toast on me and hide my cigarettes. If there's," my breath hitched. "John, if there's a chance these things can be real and beneficial to you, not just to me, if there's a chance I won't," I flicked my eyes over to meet his, holding his gaze, "won't hurt you...I want us to try. You're my best friend, and I do trust your judgment."

John had a brow quirked again, thinking. He sipped at his tea thoughtfully. "Alright," he said. "Okay."

I chewed at my lip, then smiled one of my over-enthusiastic smiles. Not an unexpected answer, but one that didn't inspire as much confidence as something a bit more in-depth, more passionate.

Oh what the hell was I doing, thinking I was good for John Watson?

"Why do you look disappointed all of a sudden?" he asked. I tried to think quickly. How could I get out of trouble and not into more trouble instead? "I can tell you my, er, feelings. If you want. I mean, the articles are just circumstantial evidence, right? I could give you my motive?" He fiddled with his ear. I do love it when he talks detective.

"Alright," I said calmly, though inside I was rocketing ahead at full speed, waiting to break out of the atmosphere. "Do go on."

"You scared me yesterday, Sherlock. I'd been keeping my interest in us being a couple a secret on purpose. I thought you'd be a bit appalled, or at least that was one outcome I foresaw. I also thought you might be over the moon. I didn't expect you to find out, and I really didn't expect you to be so fierce about it all. You were very upset, though now I see it was for my sake. Your words weren't as true as you'd thought. You do care about things, Sherlock. You care about me. You can love, I think. I still think that, think that even more."

I reached for his hand, taking it in mine. "It hurt to hear you so upset." I gave the hand a squeeze.

"We should go out," John said. There we go. There I was, out of the world, far beyond the mundane. "Somewhere small, mind you, what with people's eyes on us. But we should do it properly."

"Angelo's?" I suggested.

John nodded. "Acceptable, highly acceptable. For once, I don't think I'll mind the candle."

I smiled. "I do like the way the light of it plays across your face."

He squeezed my hand. 

"Right," he said. "And we're getting Mycroft something. It's not a question."

I rather liked when John put his foot down. Most didn't even want their foot near me. "Okay," I said, trying to sound put-upon. "Let's get it over with." 

I let go of his hand after a while and straightened up his pile of articles. "Put these back where they belong, John," I said. "They can serve as a reminder that not all dreams are stupid." At the look on his face I sighed and said, "Yes, I'm a sentimental idiot just like you."

He broke out into the largest grin his face made as he collected his articles and went to go put them in their not-so-secret drawer. Then he came back down and stood close to my chair, leaning in until I could feel his breath. 

"You are amazing," he told me. "I just...I want you to know that, Sherlock." 

I tugged him closer and our mouths met, falling together, our breaths mingling, hearts dancing. Both of them, two hearts. His heart. And mine.

Most men are born knowing they have a heart. I had to discover mine. Much of the world had tried to tell me I hadn't had one, but much of the world could piss off because I had a date with Dr. John Watson and then I had plans to get my brother something stupid and sentimental.


End file.
